That One Second
by Film and Junk
Summary: When Mrs. Davis sees her son kissing another boy, she decides to take action, and Roger struggles to keep the love of his boyfriend and his mother. MarkRoger
1. Introduction

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT or owt else you recognize. This was written for fun. No profit is being made.

This story follows "The First Time"

* * *

The day was cloudy, and promised nothing. The cover might collect and spill down onto the streets, already busy and beginning to crowd at the wee hour of seven, or dissipate, burned and blown and banished. Winter had settled in, some days, drenching. Other days the autumn seemed to have sunk its teeth in. 

Angry pedestrians muttered that Mother Nature _might_ have the courtesy to make up her mind. Grilles in the street shuddered as the subway rumbled on, unstoppable by a controlled inertia.

Roger let himself relax against Mark, melting into the weave of his shirt. Mark folded his arms across Roger's chest and brought his face to Roger's neck. They rode that way for some time.

"Come on. This is my stop."

Roger slipped off Mark's lap and grabbed his backpack and sports bag off the car's floor.

Mark held out his hand. "Help me up, baby, I'm still asleep." Roger hauled Mark off the cushioned seat. They joined the flow of warm bodies massing off the train.

They walked two blocks in silence. Too aware of their shortened time together, neither could think of anything worth the precious seconds it would take to say, though both thought of many things to say at all.

Roger thought to remind Mark of his game that evening, to share his excitement, and to express that he hoped it would be a sunny day not only for soccer, but also because he liked the sun. He liked how it made his skin feel brown.

Mark thought of what he would be doing that day, a fat loud of nothingness with perhaps some job-hunting thrown in. He would check the clocks endlessly, awaiting Roger's game. But he couldn't say that. He couldn't burden Roger with the responsibility of being the light of his life. Roger was seventeen and far too young for that.

Perhaps a simple _I love you._

Then the brick edifice had risen before them, and any time they thought they had was snatched away. They paused at the corner. Roger fastened the button at his collar and knotted his tie. Neither he nor Mark spoke, but the simple tasks bought them a few more seconds.

"Good-bye." Roger held out his hand and Mark took it. "For now."

"For now," Mark echoed, nodding. He liked that. He kissed Roger, taking a small taste of the inside of his lip. "Mm." Mark pulled Roger closer into a deep kiss, one hand wandering down to his hip and coming around to rest on Roger's bottom. The shift in his kisses alerted Mark to the stirring in Roger's trousers.

"No." Roger pulled back. "I'm sorry. I have to go to school," he reminded Mark.

Mark squeezed his hand. "Don't. Just… think of what _I_ can teach you."

Roger moaned. "Teach me later?" he implored. "Mark, you know I can't. We'll pick this up later, okay?"

"Yeah, baby." Mark stole one more kiss. "We will." He slapped Roger's rear playfully. "Go on. Don't be a delinquent or Collins'll kick your ass!"

Roger grinned and sprinted down to the school as the first bell began to ring.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Future chapters will be longer, this was just the introduction.

Reviews would be great! ...please?


	2. Out Tonight

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.

No rain fell. The sun burned the clouds off, pitching an endless blue sky.

Roger watched the ground as he jogged off the field with his team, midnight blue shorts swishing around his knees. His top was the same blue, with a blazing gold strip running from his left shoulder to his right hip, and when yearbook photos were taken Roger always felt hideous and washed-out in the uniform.

At that moment, he didn't care. He was soaked with sweat and grinning like a moron.

"All right, guys, we're doing great."

Roger tuned out the coach's pep talk. They _were_ doing well, Roger didn't doubt that: the game was one-zip in their favor.

At half-past five the sun was near enough to the western lip of the world, but the sky yet light in some places. Roger looked at the manifold colours of the sky. It looked, he thought, like those ballet skirts five-year-olds wear, that airy fabric in light blue piled up and up forever.

"Davis! Are you _listening_ to me?"

"Yes," Roger answered, returning his attention to the coach.

His expression stated that he knew Roger had not been listening, but apparently he decided it wasn't worth the fight. "You'd better be," he said. "I want you to pay attention to the game, Davis. You're playing center forward second half."

When Roger jogged back onto the field with his team, he couldn't help but grin. He scanned the benches, hoping Mark was there, but all the squinting in the world could not drown the sunlight. Then the whistle blew, and Roger couldn't think to look anymore. He dashed down the field, rallying the ball in front of him.

_Watch, Mark. Watch me._

"Mark!"

Roger pounced, still sweaty and hot and high from the game. He wrapped his arms around Mark's neck and kissed him.

"Hey."

Mark hugged Roger, tasting secondhand Kool-Aid in his mouth. "You jock."

"Did you see me score?" Roger asked.

Mark grinned. "Oh," he said. "If you think _that_ was scoring…" He ran his finger up through Roger's damp hair and kissed him again.

Roger laughed. "Just let me grab my stuff and we can take off--"

A shrill voice interrupted them: "Roger!"

Roger froze. He knew that voice all too well. Mark, not knowing, stiffened slightly, worried by Roger's worry. "What's wrong, baby?" he asked quietly, just before Roger was pulled into a hug and squashed against a rather prominent bosom.

"H-hey, Mama," Roger stammered.

She squeezed him once, a bit too tightly, before releasing him. "Hi, honey!" she cried, too enthusiastic.

"I didn't know you were coming," Roger begged Mark to believe. Mark looked half-uncomfortable and half like a deer in the headlights. Roger was more like a rabbit smelling a fox.

"I wouldn't miss it. So--" to Mark "--you're a teammate?"

"Um… well, no," Mark admitted. "I'm just… I'm a friend of Roger's."

Roger nodded. "A friend," he echoed.

"So you came with the school?"

"Not exactly," Mark admitted.

Roger's mother nodded. "You came," she said, almost speaking to herself, "just to see him play. Oh. Boy." She chuckled, but her voice was solid ice. "Then I insist you come out to dinner with us."

Mark all but choked. "Mama," Roger protested, "you never take me out."

She petted his arm. "Don't be ridiculous, honey! You played so well tonight, how can we not celebrate with your… friend?"

Roger gave Mark the strongest apologetic look he could manage.

--

"So." Meredith Davis sat between Mark and her son, half-sunk in the sticky vinyl of the booth. She kept one hand resting a little less than gently on Roger's arm, asserting her ownership. "Mark. You are… I admit I'm somewhat baffled. You're not a teammate, you aren't in Roger's classes… how did you two meet?"

"I saw his band play."

They had ordered food because Meredith insisted, because she laughed a plastic laugh and said Roger _must_ be hungry and ordered a cheeseburger for him. Mark had ordered a salad and not eaten a bite of it.

"And how long ago was this?" Meredith asked. She took a bite of her dinner. "Roger, _eat_," she said, squeezing his arm.

Mark squashed the desire to tell her, _he'll eat when he's hungry. Leave him alone._ "Probably four months ago," he said, glancing at Roger and seeing only the top of his head. Roger had reduced his cheeseburger to cud. He was crimson and rigid, each rotation of his jaw completed with massive force.

"And you two…" Meredith sighed. "You're dating him, aren't you, Mark?"

"Yes," Mark told Roger. "Yes, I am."

"You are aware of his age?"

"Yes. Seventeen," Mark added, to prove his knowledge. "I know."

"And what is _your_ age, Mark?" Meredith wanted to know.

"I'm twenty-one."

"And your job?"

The same ball of food was in Roger's mouth, rotating. A sheen of drool covered his lips, and Mark noticed that when Roger wiped away the spit the bolus shot out into the napkin. "I," he said, "um, I'm between jobs jobs."

"Are you in college?"

_Are you watching your son cry?_ "No." Mark's jaw stiffened slightly, determinedly unashamed. "No, I was in college but I appealed for a year off." And I'm not going back, ever.

"Have you… consummated your relationship?" Meredith asked.

"Mama," Roger said. Mark choked. That was answer enough.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews would be appreciated. Please?


	3. Changes

RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with his characters.

Roger didn't get much sleep that night. He pulled the covers up to his chin and stared at the darkness. Above the window, forms had been painted in glow paint, stenciled stars and galaxies winking weakly.

Through the window the city even seemed to sleep. Sometimes he heard voices at night, and sometimes he heard cars, but tonight there was nothing. Tonight even the weather silenced itself, cloud storing up their rain, storing up their snow, leaving Roger in the dark and quiet.

He pulled the covers in tighter and cold bit his toes.

Roger shivered and tucked his legs up. Damn quilt…

In the kitchen, the sink dripped and the refrigerator whirred. Roger closed his eyes, and the sound hurt his ears. He began to rise, then stopped, his heart racing.

At seventeen, Roger no longer believed in monsters under the bed. He no longer believed in them, but still, habitually, he feared them. He pushed his feet out and pulled them back.

Roger thought of walking down the hall. The carpet felt nubbly under his feet, and he was cold. The linoleum kitchen floor made him shiver. By now, Roger's testicles were clinging so close against his body he needed very badly to pee. He leaned over and twist off the dripping sink.

Roger blinked. He was lying in bed. His fantasy of the journey down the hall had been just that, a fantasy. The dripping sounded louder than ever, each thud resonating through his body, and especially through his throbbing bladder.

He jumped out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom.

_If you shake it more than twice,_ Mark would say, one hand on Roger's thigh keeping him pinned, _you're playing with it._ Mark nipped his ear. _Don't shake it more than twice,_ he warned, squeezing Roger's thigh. Roger shivered.

Stumbling down the hall back to his room, Roger was half asleep already. He fell into bed and curled up under the covers, murmuring discontentedly to himself. The quilt rustled up and settled heavily over his shoulders.

Roger sighed.

The sink dripped.

---

He had barely been asleep two hours, but it felt like the blink of an eye, when he was shaken awake.

"Get up." Meredith stood by her son's bed long enough for him to catch a bleary glimpse of her disapproving face before she said, "Come into the kitchen," and left. The door hung open, spilling light into the blue-dark room.

Roger moaned. He pushed back the quilt and threw his legs over the side of the bed. For a moment he sat, waiting to orient himself, waiting for his mind to wake up and his vision to clear. Then Roger walked into the kitchen.

He noticed Tim standing by the counter, watching him expressionlessly. Roger stumbled over to the refrigerator, drawn by its quiet-loud hum, and pulled out a can of soda.

"Sit down, Roger."

His mother was clearly displeased with him. Roger thumped down at the table. The chair felt clinging and cold under his bare thighs. Roger hadn't thought to dress, but sitting in front of his mother in a T-shirt and underpants, both items ratty and threadbare and riddled with holes, did not bother him.

Roger popped the Coke open. It was Diet Coke, he noticed, but it tasted all right sliding down his throat. Roger chugged a quarter of the can. He paused, watched the floor, then belched, clearing his throat.

Meredith made a small, displeased sound. "There will be changes around here, Roger," she announced. "Every day, you will be home by dark." Roger took another sip of Coke. It was just warming enough to taste like anything. He looked at Tim, who watched the floor.

"You'll call," Meredith continued, "wherever you go. You can keep your guitar, but I want you out of that band."

Roger nodded. He could live with that. The Well Hungarians? Roger didn't give a shit. They fucking sucked. "Games?" he asked. His team, on the other hand… "It's almost end of the season."

Already Meredith's head was bobbing. "Yes," she said. "Yes, that's fine. Honey, you know I support that."

"What about Mark?"

Tim started. He looked up, opened his mouth, then looked at the floor again. Meredith pursed her lips. "I don't want you seeing that man anymore," she decreed.

Roger shook his head. He couldn't live without Mark—no, he knew that was untrue. He could live without Mark, if Mark left him or he left Mark, if they chose to part ways or the worst should occur, but knowing that Mark was just a few trains away, out there and loving him, Roger could not live with that.

"But Mark is the best part of my life," he said.

"Well, then, I think there may be something wrong with your life."

The sink dripped a drop of water onto a dirty knife. The puddle on the blade shone. Roger blinked. _No._ It had been ages…

"I love Mark," Roger insisted. _Don't make me leave him._

"We can get you involved in—"

"I," Roger interrupted, "love Mark."

"Honey, he's bewildered you. You'll see."

"Whatever." Roger forced himself to stand. "I'm goin' out," he said.

"What did I just say?"

"That I can stay on the team! I need to practice. I'm going running."

Roger stayed long enough to pull on his sweats, then left in a heavy sulk and slammed the door behind him.

He ran until he could no longer think. He ran until the blood pounded the sound out of his ears and sweat blinded him, though he saw nothing anyway. Roger had run the same route time and again, to the point that it was a comfortable run without thought, without anything but consciousness of his body.

His nose and throat felt raw when he stumbled back into the apartment. Roger spoke to no one, and if anyone spoke to him, he didn't care. He wandered into the bathroom and let burning water pour over him.

After a while his muscles began to melt. Roger sank onto the floor. He lay in fetal position under a jet of water and tried to think things through.

_No more Mark. No more Mark. No more early mornings of cold floors and bitter black coffee in the loft. No more philosophy with Collins. No more Mark…_

The water began to hurt against his skin. Roger shut it off. He dried himself off, fighting the leaden feeling in his muscles. Roger left the bathroom with a towel clutched around his waist.

His parents had gone out.

"Oh."

Staring into the sink, dribbling onto the linoleum, Roger realized that it was Saturday. He stared at the beads of water that collected and fell, collapsing under their own weight, into the basin.

Roger cut himself on his hip. It bled but didn't hurt enough. Something was missing. Something did not remain when the sting had ebbed.

Roger emptied a Tupperware into a pot and heated through some soup. He watched bubbles pop and grow. "Fucking soccer." Roger swiped at tears gathering in his eyes.

"Soccer!"

He checked the calendar on the refrigerator. Two weeks. He had a game in two weeks.

Roger smiled.

Maybe Mark would see him play.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Please review?


	4. Consider the Penalties

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson; I'm just playing with the characters.

Roger sat on the bleachers, wedged into the footwell with his knees drawn up to his chest, sniffling. His shoulders jumped slightly with each sniffle. Rocks of ice pinged off the seats to his left and right and ricocheted off his skin. His arms shook, and under his wet clothes his skin felt raw and enflamed.

Roger didn't care.

Down in front of the stands, the field had been rained up to a muddy gazpacho. Twelve members of the soccer team pounded laps around the cement that ringed the pitch. The last member of the team couldn't bring himself down from the stands. Because what was the point, really?

"Davis."

Roger raised his eyes and gave a half-hearted grunt of greeting. The coach sat on the lower bleacher and asked, "What's going on?"

Roger shook his head.

"Why don't you head home?"

Again Roger shook his head.

"Hey. We all have our days, Davis. You're not running, go home and get some rest. I'll see you on Monday."

Roger tried to express any semblance of gratitude for his coach's concern, but managed only a squeak and a nod. He forced his cold, stiff joints to move, rubbing his knees to let himself stand.

---

"Roger." There were three knocks on his bedroom door, then another call. "Roger, honey, come on. Stop sulking."

Roger moaned, rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. _If I don't answer, she'll go away. If I don't answer, she'll go away. If I don't answer, she'll—_

"Roger." The door swung open, and Meredith stepped into the room. She stood beside the bedding, glaring disapprovingly at her son. "Get up, Roger." He made no move. "I'm not putting up with this. Get dressed and come out to dinner with me and your dad."

"He isn't my dad!"

Singing-trained boys could shout more powerfully than average teenagers. Roger was sitting up, fists clenched at his sides, trembling.

Meredith raised a hand to her forehead. "Not this again. It's been four years, Roger. I'm sick of hearing it."

"He isn't," Roger hissed through clenched teeth, "my dad."

"No," Meredith admitted, "he's not. Now are you coming out with us?"

"No."

"Fine! Stay here then. You can feed yourself. And you know what, if that's your attitude, you can wash your own clothes. I'm not going to try so hard if you don't care." She turned and stalked to the door, paused and turned. "Roger," Meredith said, "when the telephone bill comes, if I see that man's number, I'll report him to the police. Consider the penalties of sodomizing a minor."

Roger bit his lip. _But I love him._ He had noticed that his mother didn't care. "How do you know I was on the bottom?" he sneered.

She slammed his door. Roger sank down beneath the covers, squeezing his eyes shut and hugging himself too hard. He heard his mother's voice, snarky in tone though her words were muffled. Tim's response was quiet, then the door clicked shut.

When Roger closed his eyes and tried to sleep, the breath caught in his throat. He tried to imagine Mark's arms around him, the warm solidity of Mark chest at his back, but nothing he could imagine was nearly as good. Roger tried to feel Mark's breath on the back of his neck and couldn't.

Roger slipped his hand down between his legs and fondled himself, eliciting no response. "Come on," he hissed, stroking. "Come _on_," but he couldn't.

He hunkered lower under the blankets, hugged himself, and felt cold.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Okay, I know that there are not 13 players per team in each game, but in the teams I was on there were usually a couple kids who didn't get to play per game, which is how Roger's team works.

Please review?


	5. Abominations

There is some discussion of religion in this chapter. It's not intended to offend anyone. I hope that if it does upset you, you'll take into consideration that these are only the views of the character and that they are not meant to offend. I am sorry if anyone is hurt, offended or upset. That was not my intention.

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters.

"Davis!"

On Monday, his coach pulled him out of practice. Roger was closing the few-foot gap between himself and the rest of his team. It was a gap he had made, racing out ahead of them, around the track time after time getting farther ahead, until farther ahead meant closer behind.

"Davis, come here."

Roger jogged over. "Yeah?"

"Can't let you run like that. Go get cleaned up and come back for drills. You've got to keep pace with the team, Davis."

In the bathroom, Roger caught sight of his face. His nose was bleeding, and the bottom part of his face was smeared with blood. He washed up, kept pace. And outside of school, when he ran too hard the nosebleed returned.

-

"Roger, wake up. It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Roger, you've been asleep for hours, get up!"

"Mmm'k," Roger mumbled.

He managed to push himself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. He didn't bother closing the door. When he was through, Roger found himself exhausted, his eyelids so heavy they closed against his will. He wandered back to his bedroom and fell into bed.

"Roger, don't tell me you've gone back to sleep! Roger!" She shook him, but he made no effort to move.

He didn't know how long it was before she returned, this time to rest a hand on his forehead. "Are you feeling all right, honey?"

"No," Roger admitted.

"What's wrong? Where does it hurt?"

He rolled over just enough to look at his mother. He met her eyes and said, "I'm wrong, Mom. I'm gay. Got put together wrong." Then he rolled over, pulled the covers up, and if she continued to speak, he didn't hear her.

-

"Roger, honey. Roger. It's Sunday, Roger, Sunday afternoon." It was the first time her voice had broken through to him. It sounded dense and slow, like oil in the pan before the heat's turned on. "There's someone here to see you, Roger."

He didn't answer.

"Please come and talk to him, Roger."

Roger moaned and huddled deeper under his blankets.

"Well perhaps he'll come in and speak to you."

Roger said nothing. He listened to his mother retreat, quiet voices, and footsteps towards his room again. He had no interest in speaking to anyone. No, Roger realized, that was untrue. He wanted to speak to people. He wanted to speak to Mark and Collins.

"Hello, Roger."

Roger groaned. He knew that voice anywhere, that half-lilt of an under-developed Irish accent. "Have you come to tell me I'm an abomination, Father?"

"Why's that, Roger? Have you killed somebody?"

Roger couldn't help himself: he chuckled.

"The only sinful act you've committed is turning your back on life."

Roger sat up. "What about having sex with a man?" he asked.

The priest shrugged. Up until then, Roger had actually liked Father Luke. He seemed to care about what he was saying, and also about the congregation, which was more than Roger could say for most priests he had seen. "Do you love him?"

"What?"

"Do you love him?" Luke repeated.

Roger nodded.

"Then what sin?"

"That he's a man."

"The only sin in sex, at least that I see in the Bible, is in not loving. If you love him, Roger…"

Roger frowned. "What about Genesis?" he asked. "It says," he said, not totally sure why he was bothering to argue with someone who wanted to tell him he was doing right, "that to lie with man as with woman, is abomination."

"I can't speak for your experience, Roger," Luke said, grinning, "but you may know that a woman's build, is quite different from a man's." Roger smiled. "And before you bring this up, Sodom and Gomor'ra was about disrespect. It was about men having corrupted hearts, not about anal sex. Lot asks God to spare Sodom, do you remember why, Roger?"

He nodded. "Yes. If he could find a hundred good men."

"One," Luke said. "Lot got the wager down to one good man. A man is decided good or evil not by his actions but by the reasons behind them. If you are having intercourse with someone you love, that is between you and him. The sin you've committed is in denying your life."

"What?"

"At the heart of the Garden of Eden grows the tree of life. As long as you lie in bed sulking… There's more to it than happiness, Roger, because beneath all your feeling is life."

-

Keeping pace wasn't as difficult as it seemed. All he had to do, Roger found, was listen to the pounding footsteps of a dozen boys, hear the rhythm, and match it with his own body, step for step for step.

"Why?" he asked that night, breaking into Meredith's conversation. "What did Mark do? He's a good man."

"Honey," Meredith said, "anyone who does things like that to a little boy is seriously ill. Not a good man."

Roger didn't bother arguing. She wouldn't listen.

The following morning, he jogged half a mile before stopping at a pay phone.

Morning always had offered a lot to Roger, more than just an opportunity to run around wherever his mom had packed up and moved to. As much as he enjoyed being outside, in the middle of the city, in sweatpants and a T-shirt and not having thousands of people watch him like he was insane, Roger liked even more to run through the streets and see everything, with everyone asleep, the city just his.

It had been low houses in Utah. Low houses, wide streets, and the gates were always locked at the theater but that didn't stop Roger climbing in, not after his brother showed him how.

Taos had the same build, low, squat houses, a dun-orange color of abode brick, just like the dust at the edges of the desert, where Roger stood before sunrise, watching, waiting, then racing out and daring himself how far he could go.

This particular morning was foggy, cold. Roger clutched the payphone like a lifeline. He wasn't surprised when the answering machine picked up at the loft. "Hey," he said. "It's Roger. Mark? I miss you. Are you okay? How's your film? I… I love you." He sniffled and squeezed his eyes shut. _No._ "I love you, I want to be with you, I… I don't know what to do, but… I have to go. I love you."

He lingered for a moment, trying to think of anything more to say, something meaningful, something to make him feel better and make Mark forgive him. Oh, God. He hadn't considered that Mark would be angry with him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know… forgive me. Please forgive me. It's… uh, it's almost 5:30 now. I'll try to call tomorrow around the same time, if you're willing to talk. I love you. 'Bye, Mark. Take care."

He forced himself to hang up the phone, and he ran. He ran from the message, from the telephone, from the apartment. Even when he was running back to it, Roger ran away from the apartment.

He wasn't ready for it. Roger wanted to keep running, keep going, but he had already exceeded his usual distance, and he pounded the sidewalk back home, rasping through a ragged trachea. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

Meredith froze when she saw her son. "Honey…"

"Yeah," he said. "I need to shower."

The nosebleed was back. Roger's knees shook, and his skin throbbed and melted. In the tub, his knees gave out. Roger sat on the floor with cold water pouring from the shower faucet. He leaned against the side of the tub and heaved deep breaths until his pulse had slowed to normal and he could feel the cold.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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	6. Second Phonecall

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with his

The following morning, clutching the telephone tightly as his breath puffed out in white clouds, Roger was surprised to find himself hoping. He wanted desperately for Mark to be home, to pick up the phone. If he didn't, Roger would probably leave another message… but what did it mean? Did Mark want to end things?

It would hurt, Roger knew. It would hurt more than anything. Still, he wished to know. And to hear Mark's voice again.

_Rrrring._

"Roger?"

"Collins!" Not who he was hoping for. Still, Roger breathed a sigh of relief. "How… how are you? How's things? Is Mark okay? Is he there? Is he—"

"Woah. Take a deep breath, Roger. Mark's here, he just doesn't know there's a such thing as five o'clock in the morning. I'll go get him, okay? You try not to have a coronary."

"Okay," Roger said, but Collins was already gone.

A moment later, a frantic, eager voice asked, "Roger?"

"Mark!" Roger began to tremble. "Oh, God, I missed you. Mark, I… I… after what happened with my mother, do you still… want to be with me?" he forced himself to ask. "I understand if—"

"Roger! No, Roger. I missed you, baby." Mark closed his eyes, surprised at a prickling sensation and the overwhelming urge to _be there_, to hug Roger and touch him and cuddle him until everything bad had gone away. "I want to see you." He had been afraid to call after the incident at the game.

"I want to see you, too, but right now… I don't know. I'm barely allowed out, just school and sports. I'm supposed to be running now, I… Mark… I don't know. I'm afraid she'll kick me out, Mark, and I don't have anywhere else to go."

Roger paused, sniffling, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Mark covered his eyes. _Jesus_. And he just stood there and listened and did nothing, because he had nothing to do.

"Don't worry. We'll figure this out." _Move in with me._ "I love you."

"We will." The pronoun comforted him. Roger took a deep breath. _It's okay, it'll be okay._ "I love you, too. It's so good to hear your voice…. She made me quit the band, Mark, and… How are you? Are you all right?"

"She made you quit? Did she make you quit the team, too?" This wasn't fair to Roger. He was going through hell, and Mark couldn't even hug him. Couldn't even touch his hand.

"No—no, I'm still on the team. I'm supposed to be running now, but… if—"

He was interrupted, not by Mark but by the operator requesting that he please insert another ten cents. Roger dug into his pocket, retrieved a quarter, and dropped I in.

"Roger? Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here, I… I'm sorry. I don't know what to do." He took a deep, shaking breath. "I want to see you."

"Me, too, baby, but you need to be careful. I don't want things to get worse—"

Roger couldn't help himself: he laughed. "Worse, Mark?" Ask your roommate about worse! "All else she can do is take the guitar." The thought terrified him. "I don't know what I'd do…" And knowing, knowing that Mark could only make it worse, Roger forced himself to say, "I want to write you a song. It's in my head. Would you mind, Mark? If I wrote you a song?"

"A song?" Mark blushed. He had seen Roger's work and found it less than impressive. Still, just the thought… "Yeah, if that's what you want. So… so, maybe I can come and see you in your next game?"

"Oh, yeah… yeah, it's on Saturday, it's a big game, championship." Roger chuckled. "We're really good, Mark," he said. "The game's at noon."

Mark promised, "I'll be there." Then nothing. Silence. He listened and thought he heard breathing. "Roger? You still there?"

"Yeah." Then, "Please talk."

"What should I say?" Mark asked.

"I don't care." Roger sniffled and swiped at his eyes. "Anything, say anything, but talk. Please."

Mark sighed. "Are you crying?" he asked. "Please don't cry, Roger."

"I'm not crying."

This time, when the operator asked Roger to insert another ten cents, he didn't have it. He hurried a declaration of love for Mark, and when the line went dead Roger threw himself into the rain and ran until he could scarcely breathe.

When the water pounding his shoulders buried Roger in a thick steam, he wanted to touch himself. Efforts over the past few weeks had given him tummy aches or made him want to cry. But now he could think of Mark without having his gut wrench. Now Roger could enjoy himself.

He pressed his hands to the shower wall. He could and would have an orgasm, but that orgasm would come from Mark. His eyes closed at the memory. Roger moaned, remembering how hard Mark was, how dominating, Mark's hands on his skin and his fingers in his hair. Roger tried to conjure the memory of Mark's smell, something soapy and clean and human. He heard Mark panting and Moaning.

"Oops."

Once he had finished washing, Roger rinsed the shower wall.

He couldn't stop smiling.

_Saturday_, he promised.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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